


Miser's Gold

by Delphi



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: Drama, M/M, Secret Admirer, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-10-02
Updated: 2006-10-02
Packaged: 2017-10-04 23:38:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/35327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Delphi/pseuds/Delphi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some memories are golden.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Miser's Gold

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2006 run of Kinda Lush on LJ. Prompt: _Voyeur_

There were two kinds of people in this world—wasn't that what everybody always said? Well, for once everybody was right. But the way Argus Filch saw it, it didn't come down to what a man did with his life, nor the things he said, nor the will behind either. It was all in the remembering.

The first sort remembered everything golden, all sweetness and light. Maybe there was some bad in there too, can't help that, but everything good got dusted off and polished up better than it had really been to start with, brighter than it could ever be again. Then there was the other sort: them who'd been ground down and stomped on for so long that they remembered nothing but the bad and the worse. Every slight stayed sharp, every wound open and festering, private grudges growing like mushrooms in the muck.

Like any honest working man with more than two wits to rub together, Argus knew which side he stood on.

That only made the exceptions all the more dear. His first memories, when he was too young and stupid to know better. A handful after, the rare bit of gold in with the tarnished bronze.

Four years ago, maybe five, a serious slip of a boy came knocking at his office door. Couldn't have been more than a firstie, all big eyes behind a ragged curtain of black hair. This was one of the good ones, tiptoeing in to let him know who it was that turned all the salt and pepper shakers in the Great Hall into the stampede of mice that'd had poor Mrs. Norris parched and sneezing all week.

It called for a reward. He dug a confiscated Willy Wham's Chocolate Chew out of his file cabinet and tossed it at the boy, who fumbled it, picked it up off the floor, and frowned a little, colour blooming in his sallow cheeks. Argus waited for him to leave, but to his great surprise the boy only shuffled his feet and then sat down in the chair opposite the desk, carefully peeling open his chocolate. A crinkle of foil, a soft smack of the lips. He watched the boy in puzzlement a moment before taking out a detention slip and writing a report for Professor McGonagall on the matter of young Misters Black, Lupin, Pettigrew, and Potter.

"Which one are you again?" he asked.

The boy paused, chewing hard and gulping down his mouthful. "Severus Snape." Something of a northern accent there.

Argus made a note to look him up. The name rang a distant bell—he recalled a spat earlier this year, some Slytherin and Gryffindor quarrel that got swept up by the Heads of House—but he would lay money there had never been another Snape at the school so long as he'd been here; he would have marked it otherwise, having people in the village by the same name down Suffolk-ways. It made the boy something of a mystery, made him stick in Argus's head, because that wasn't a Muggleborn look he had to him.

He did not ask after young Severus Snape's lines, though. He didn't say anything at all. He sat very still and watched as the boy made his way slowly through his sweet, quietly chewing and licking melted chocolate from his fingers. It was the most company he'd had in months.

And that was exactly how he remembered it. Sunshine coming through the window, and the warm, comfortable quiet. The boy's hunched little shoulders, his straight brows drawn together, and neither of them quite meeting each other's eyes as the clock on the wall ticked on for one minute, two minutes, five.

Then the chair scraped back crookedly. The empty foil wrapper fluttered into the wastepaper basket. The boy glanced at him, just once, and then hurriedly slipped out the door and closed it softly behind him. Gone.

* * *

On the flip side of that coin: Severus Snape was all grown up in the autumn of 1976. The cold had come early that year, and Argus could see his own breath in the narrow confines of the catacombs. He knew these passageways as well as he knew his own hands. He had walked them, and scrubbed them, and even napped in them now and again in the daytime summer heat. Sometimes they still managed to throw him, however, especially the shallow ones that rose to run through the north dungeons. They shifted and slithered, serpentine. Only by inches, it seemed, and yet sometimes that was enough to get him turned around, coming when he should be going.

He should have been veering west to the cellar stores when the sudden clatter of the pipes and the sound of rushing water found him right up alongside the Slytherin dormitories—the upper-level boys' bath if he wasn't mistaken. He stopped, the sound registering fully. It was the middle of the day, an odd time for someone to be mucking about with the showers.

_Peeves_, was his first thought, nearly growled aloud as annoyance lanced through him. The very last thing he needed to deal with today was the drains backing up or the shower-heads spraying pumpkin juice again. He was diverted from his errand with a sigh, scanning the wall for a crack in the mortar big enough for the light to pour through. Spotting one, he knelt down stiffly on the crooked stones, shutting one eye and peering inside. What he found...was not a poltergeist.

He drew back, biting his lip, then leaned in again.

The room was already steaming up, but it couldn't hide nearly enough. A skinny, dark-haired boy stood under a lone shower spray, facing away from him. Hair soaked through. Pale shoulders, and water streaming down his back, and the tightest little arse Argus had laid eyes on in an age.

He swallowed hard, glancing guiltily to both sides, half expecting Dumbledore or Professor McGonagall to spring out of the shadows, or Slughorn to choose today to find a new shortcut to his office. There was no sound, however, except the spill of the water; no unexpected sight except the one he got when the boy in the showers turned around to grab his flannel.

Severus—Severus Snape.

Argus looked away then, heat rising to his face and an old memory glinting in the back of his mind. The boy hadn't crossed his path in a long time, too old to tell tales anymore and under the purview of his Head of House now, save that bad business at the end of last year—not that anyone would tell _him_ anything about it—being one of the bunch that sneaked out after dark and nearly got themselves ate by some forest beast. The headmaster handled that one himself, and the whole hullabaloo had been the first time he'd had cause to think of Severus Snape in at least a year.

Now the boy had a whole new reason to linger in his thoughts. Argus sat back on his heels, staring at the dingy bricks. The picture stayed frozen in front of his eyes, no matter that he resisted another peek with all his might. He stayed there, holding still, until the pipes groaned again and the water shut off. Then he rose slowly to his feet and crept off silently down the passageway before he could change his mind.

* * *

He managed to keep from going back for nearly a week.

It didn't help. From obscurity to front and centre, the boy was suddenly underfoot wherever he went. He spotted him in the corridors, digging through his satchel as he strode to his next class; out in the courtyard, puzzling over a sheaf of notes; in the Great Hall, bent seriously over his pudding. He got to know him all over again: Severus was studious and sharp-tongued, smiling rarely, laughing even less. The boy held his own in his classes, his nose often stuck in a book outside of them. He was an early riser, always the first to breakfast, and he didn't give a fig about Quidditch, and he still had a sweet tooth. He was always alone.

Every afternoon at one o'clock, when the sixth years began their study period, Argus would watch as Severus slipped away from his classmates in the library and down the stairs back to the dungeons. He traced the boy's walk, the sweep of his robes—just a little too short on growing legs—and the guarded look on his face.

Finally, the fifth time, he gave in and followed him.

* * *

It came to be a habit. Days first, and then weeks. It wasn't...it wasn't how it might have looked, at least not at first. He didn't intend to do anything coarse, nothing uncalled for. Never mind what some thought of him, and never mind that he'd always been bent that way, he only stole a peek or two through the steam, just enough to get his heart pounding a little too hard. He kept himself reined in and never even let his thoughts wander too far afield.

Until, one day, he happened by earlier than usual—waiting instead of following—and he got himself a good eyeful of just what Severus got up to in private.

The door to the bath opened, and in came Severus, towel over his shoulder and shower kit in hand. Argus stared as he came closer, closer, so close that he might have reached out and touched him had the wall not stood between them. Severus opened up the cupboard and pulled off his robes, leaving nothing but bare skin and a flimsy pair of grey drawers right in front of Argus's face.

God, he could almost _smell_ him.

He tried to gulp the sight in all at once. That wasn't a boy's body at all, but a young man's, filled out to fit. His shoulders had some width, his legs long and lean. And as Severus turned a little—oh yes, keep turning—there was a prime view of his flat belly and little brown nipples. Argus could almost count the smattering of black curls on his chest, and his fingers twitched, aching to stroke the other patch that drew a thin trail down into his pants.

The lovely, horrid young thing.

Severus's hands slipped down, thumbs hooking in the waistband of his drawers.

"That's it..." Argus mouthed.

One quick little push and they were around his ankles, and Argus's gaze slid up those long legs to a pretty length of cock that was already plumping up. Severus turned, showing that peach of a backside, strutting to a shower-head, putting on the spray and soaping up his hand.

Argus held his breath. He closed his eyes and then had to open them again just as badly as he needed to breathe. His hand, of its own volition, unbuckled his belt and jammed down into his trousers. With only a moment's guilty hesitation, he matched the boy stroke for stroke.

* * *

From then on, he went in early every day, savouring the delicious retreat. Sometimes Severus was in a hurry and they stayed only a short while together; other times he was a tease, making it last as long as a young tom could, one hand braced on the slick shower wall, the water dripping from his hair, his hand moving in long, slow, twisting strokes.

Argus forewent his afternoon naps to stay late, sleep happily sacrificed to linger after they were both spent. Severus would dry off and dress again, and then would go off to his bed to study. From the gap between two crumbling corner bricks, Argus could just about glimpse him: a stocking foot, or a pile of books. He could hear him, if he strained—the soft steady sound of his breathing, or a murmur under his breath as his quill scratched against parchment.

Sometimes Mrs. Norris would come padding silently down the passageway, seeking him out and rubbing herself against his ankles as though she could sense his contentment. She quietly purred but never gave him away.

* * *

The boy began to follow him home at night. In guilty daydreams and dirty fantasies, Severus haunted him, his shade leaving the passageway with him when their hour together had passed. Sometimes the desperate, stolen afternoon moments weren't enough and his blood still boiled as he lay down in bed at night. His thoughts turned to dangerous corners, and though he chained them up tight, he couldn't banish them altogether.

What if Severus knew? What if that was what he thought about when he pulled himself off in the showers—some old pervert in the shadows, watching him, wanting him? What if Argus were to tell him? What if he were to _touch_ him?

Oh, he would be careful with him, more careful than he'd ever been with anyone in his life. Not like with a whore, where everyone knew their business. He knew he would have to make the boy feel very good, very quickly, before he had a chance to protest. He knew just how Severus liked it, though. He would get his hand into his robes good and quick and give him a firm squeeze, the sort that always made Severus moan deep in his chest, made his hips buck up into a slick hand. Then two fingers and a thumb, a teasing hold, doing the little stroke-and-twist he always did.

Then, Argus would get down on his knees and take the boy's narrow hips in his hands. Breathe in the scent of him. "Want me to give you a suck?" he'd whisper, and Severus, growing lad that he was, would be so damned randy that he'd only frown that worried frown for a moment before nodding his head.

That lovely cock, and those nipples...he could spend hours just having a feast on those. He wondered if anyone had ever done that for him (had anyone ever done _anything_ for him?)—he certainly seemed to like stroking them himself. God, if Argus were the first, he'd bet he could have the boy thinking it was magic. He could almost taste it...nuzzling them, licking them, blowing across their stiff little peaks to make Severus shiver. Sucking them, yes, sucking them hard until they went red, and then biting at them until they were raw. And then he would stroke them again, and if Severus thought they were sensitive before...

He could make him moan, make him squirm, make him beg. And he would do whatever the lad asked then, he swore he would. He would be properly grateful, and he would make it so good for strange young Severus.

His imaginings built to a fever. Oh God, what if he could _fuck_ him?

He stopped, gripped himself tight, and still couldn't keep himself from shooting off—only made it go roughly on and on as he imagined his fingers stroking between those pretty cheeks, getting him slick, spreading him open, pushing inside. He nearly wept with the want of it.

Afterwards, he lay awake in the darkness with a stiff handkerchief and his own foolishness, thinking of Severus, quiet, sullen Severus. He thought he loved him, maybe. He thought that Severus Snape was the sort of boy that he might have been, had he not been born a cripple. Not popular, nor handsome, nor into sport—he was not so deluded as to think he wouldn't have been just as miserable a bastard whether he'd been magicked or not—but hardworking, and proud, and fated to make something of his life.

They were the same, somehow, deep down at the heart of it. That secret was the only thing that kept him warm.

* * *

In mid-December, something changed.

Argus waited five minutes outside the showers, then ten, to no avail. An anxious prickle crept down his spine at the terrible suspicion that something awful had happened. He was just about to turn to make his way back up to the library, or maybe the infirmary, when he he heard the faint fluttering of wings and the sound of someone leaping to his feet in the next room. He hurried to look.

Severus was standing by the dormitory window, shutting it against a little flurry of snow, a cream-coloured envelope sitting on the sill. Argus recognised it: one of Professor Slughorn's fancy invitations. The boy held it delicately, opening it up with careful hands like it was a Christmas present.

Argus pressed himself against the wall, trying to catch the look on his face...

"Snape!"

He jumped back as the dormitory door swung open, the brutish voice ringing out loudly enough to echo into the passageway.

Severus in turn murmured something soft and annoyed under his breath, and Argus leaned in close again to see who had joined him. He got a glimpse of a lumpy little fellow waving an identical envelope.

"So you finally got one, eh? Wonders never cease." The interloper's wheezy little giggle identified him. The younger Carrow boy.

Severus didn't dignify the lout with an answer, disappearing out of Argus's range of sight a moment; he heard the opening and closing of a trunk.

The lump blocked his view. "It's formal dress, you know, Snape." Another grating giggle. "I could lend you my extra pair of dress robes if you want. Five Galleons—on the condition that you bathe first, of course."

What happened next passed too quickly for Argus to catch until it was already over. He could not see Severus. He did not see him draw his wand. But a flash of gold light nearly blinded him, and suddenly Carrow was no longer in front of the peephole but slamming into the ceiling with a sickening thud and sticking fast.

The door slammed shut. Carrow was left glued and puling pathetically.

Argus grinned.

* * *

He wasn't a complete idiot.

That was what he told himself, at least, as he left the castle grounds and ferried across to Hogsmeade. He knew the boy wasn't going to fall into his arms over some silly gift. He didn't even mean for him to know. But if Severus did, somehow, find out...well, a part of him rather liked the idea of Severus knowing, remembering, that once in his youth a foolish older man had gone soft over him and bought him something lavish. Let him know that he could have the world on a plate if he wanted to, just as surely as any snotty young prefect or inbred heir.

Argus didn't know much about fashion, his only good suit purchased back when Pollux Potts was the Minister for Magic and top hats were still the rage, but the manikin at the haberdashery was just as skinny as Severus, and he could easily imagine how all that black silk would hang off the boy.

"In the market for new dress robes, sir?" a disgustingly cheerful voice piped up behind him. "Straight from Paris!"

"Not for me."

The clerk cut out in front of him, a bandy-legged little bald fellow with an altogether too knowing expression "For someone special, then?"

Argus gave him a hard look. "My nephew."

He grabbed a pair of dress socks while the clerk was busy taking down the robes, and then, thinking of those worn grey drawers, picked up a stack of new ones. A small charge sparked in him.

"We have a new model of boots that would go beautifully with the robes!"

Argus glared.

"On sale, sir!" the clerk rallied. "Regular leather, but you'd swear it was straight off a Hebridean Black!" He held out a pair of black boots. Elegant, but plain. Good soles, sturdy buckle. Not too fancy for everyday wear.

Argus sighed, fingering the drawstrings on his purse—practically his whole pay for the year. "Size seven," he said. "And wrap everything up."

* * *

This was what he remembered: at seven o'clock on the evening of the winter solstice, Professor Slughorn opened the doors on his little soir-ay. Argus was there, still setting up the tables when the first guests arrived. They were the new ones, the ones whose brains hadn't rotted enough to think that tardiness could be fashionable. A pair of young girls, fourteen at most, chattering like birds. An older boy, mousy Prescott from Ravenclaw, looking like he'd rather be anywhere but where he was.

And Severus. Severus Snape, striking in black silk. Severus, pale and proud, striding in like a prince. Slughorn looked up from the buffet, a look of surprise crossing his face, quickly replaced by a sly glimmer. Argus stayed in the shadows, watching the boy pass—staring, he knew it, but he couldn't help himself. He busied himself at the table, glaring suspiciously as the next wave of guests showed up, and then the next. Present students and old faces, some recent graduands, some gone so long that he could identify them only by their youthful crimes rather than their names.

"Thank you, Argus, that will be all," Slughorn murmured, shuffling by him on his way to clasp hands with some high muckety-muck in velvet.

Severus looked at him then, as though overhearing from across the room. Their eyes met for an instant, and Argus's heart nearly smashed its way out of his chest. Then the boy's gaze slid sideways to Slughorn. Argus could see the slow speculation unfurling. He looked away to the small pack of young men beckoning Severus to their circle at the centre of the room. He could place a few faces: Avery, Jugson, Malfoy. Severus's back turned as he hesitantly joined them, and the group swallowed him up.

It was for the best, Argus thought. It was all for the best.

He slipped out into the corridor, the roar of conversation, and the music, and the clinking of glasses following him out. He paused only a moment, catching just one more glimpse of the boy. Keen eyes behind a curtain of dark hair, a wine glass in hand, and the crowd at his feet. The memory burned itself into his mind, and the golden gleam of lamplight was the last thing Argus saw before he closed the door behind him and shut his eyes.


End file.
